Orlando Furioso

CANTO 25

AR­GU­MENT Rogero Richard­et­to from the pains Of fire pre­serves, doomed by Mar­sil­ius dead: He to Rogero af­ter­wards ex­plains Ful­ly the cause while he to death was led. Them mourn­ful Aldigi­er next en­ter­tains, And with them the en­su­ing morn­ing sped, Vi­vian and Malagi­gi to set free; To Berto­la­gi sold for hire and fee.

I Oh! mighty springs of war in youth­ful breast, Im­petu­ous force of love, and thirst of praise! Nor yet which most avails is known aright: For each by turns its op­po­site out­weighs. With­in the bo­som here of ei­ther knight, Hon­our, be sure, and du­ty strong­ly sways: For the amorous strife be­tween them is de­layed, Till to the Moor­ish camp they fur­nish aid.

II Yet love sways more; for, save that the com­mand Was laid up­on them by their la­dy gay, Nei­ther would in that bat­tle sheathe the brand, Till he was crowned with the vic­to­ri­ous bay; And Agra­mant might vain­ly with his band, For ei­ther knight’s ex­pect­ed suc­cour, stay. Then Love is not of evil na­ture still; — He can at times do good, if of­ten ill.

III ‘Twas now, sus­pend­ing all their hos­tile rage, One and the oth­er payn­im cav­alier, The Moor­ish host from siege to dis­en­gage, For Paris, with the gen­tle la­dy, steer; And with them goes as well that dwarfish page, Who tracked the foot­steps of the Tar­tar peer, Till he had brought the war­rior front to front, In pres­ence with the jeal­ous Rodomont.

IV They at a mead ar­rived, where, in dis­port, Knights were repos­ing by a stream, one pair Dis­armed, an­oth­er casqued in mar­tial sort; And with them was a dame of vis­age fair. Of these in oth­er place I shall re­port, Not now; for first Rogero is my care, That good Rogero, who, as I have shown, In­to a well the mag­ic shield had thrown.

V He from that well a mile is hard­ly gone Ere he a couri­er sees ar­rive at speed, Of those dis­patched by King Troy­ano’s son To knights whom he await­ed in his need; From him Rogero hears that so fore­done By Charles are those who hold the payn­im creed, They will, save quick­ly suc­coured in the strife, As quick­ly for­feit lib­er­ty and life.

VI Rogero stood awhile in pen­sive case, Whom many war­ring thoughts at once op­prest; But nei­ther fit­ted was the time nor place To make his choice, or judge what promised best. The couri­er he dis­mist, and turned his face Whith­er he with the damsel was ad­drest; Whom aye the Child so hur­ried on her way, He left her not a mo­ment for de­lay.

VII Pur­su­ing thence their an­cient road again, They reached a city, with the wes­ter­ing sun; Which, in the midst of France, from Charle­magne Mar­sil­ius had in that long war­fare won: Nor them to in­ter­rupt or to de­tain, At draw­bridge or at gate, was any one: Though in the fos­se, and round the pal­isade, Stood many men, and piles of arms were laid.

VI­II Be­cause the troop about that fortress see Ac­com­pa­ny­ing him, the well-​known dame, They to Rogero leave the pas­sage free, Nor even ques­tion him from whence he came. Reach­ing the square, of evil com­pa­ny He finds it full, and bright with rud­dy flame; And, in the midst, is man­ifest to view The youth con­demned, with face of pal­lid hue.

IX As on the stripling’s face he turns his eyes, Which hangs de­clined and wet with fre­quent tear, Rogero thinks he Bradamant de­scries; So much the youth re­sem­bles her in cheer: More sure the more in­tent­ly he es­pies Her face and shape: when thus the cav­alier: “Or this is Bradamant, or I no more Am the Rogero which I was be­fore.

X “She hath ad­ven­tured with too dar­ing will, In res­cue of the youth con­demned to die; And, for the en­ter­prise had end­ed ill, Hath there been tak­en, as I see. Ah! why Was she so hot her pur­pose to ful­fil, That she must hith­er unat­tend­ed hie! — But I thank Heav­en, that hith­er have I made: Since I am yet in time to lend her aid.”

XI He drew his fal­chion with­out more de­lay, (His lance was bro­ken at the oth­er town), And, though the un­armed peo­ple mak­ing way, Wound­ing flank, paunch, and bo­som, bore them down. He whirled his weapon, and, amid the ar­ray, Smote some across the gul­let, cheek, or crown. Scream­ing, the dis­si­pat­ed rab­ble fled; The most with cloven limbs or bro­ken head.

XII As while at feed, in full se­cu­ri­ty, A troop of fowl along the mar­ish wend, If sud­den­ly a fal­con from the sky Swoop mid the crowd, and one sur­prise and rend, The rest dis­pers­ing, leave their mate to die, And on­ly to their own es­cape at­tend; So scat­ter­ing hadst thou seen the fright­ed throng, When young Rogero pricked that crowd among.

XI­II Rogero smites the head from six or four, Who in es­cap­ing from the field are slow. He to the breast di­vides as many more, And count­less to the eyes and teeth be­low. I grant no hel­mets on their heads they wore, But there were shin­ing iron caps enow; And, if fine hel­mets did their tem­ples press, His sword would cut as deep, or lit­tle less.

XIV Such good Rogero’s force and val­our are, As nev­er now-​a-​days in war­rior dwell; Nor yet in ram­pant li­on, nor in bear, Nor (whether home or for­eign) beast more fell. Hap­ly with him the earth­quake might com­pare, Or hap­ly the great dev­il — not he of hell — But he who is my lord’s, who moves in fire, And parts heav­en, earth, and ocean in his ire.

XV At ev­ery stroke he nev­er less o’erthrew Than one, and of­ten­er two, up­on the plain; And four, at once, and even five he slew; So that a hun­dred in a thought were slain. The sword Rogero from his gir­dle drew As knife cuts curd, di­vides their plate and chain. Fa­le­ri­na in Or­gagna’s gar­den made, To deal Or­lan­do death, that cru­el blade.

XVI But to have forged that fal­chion sore­ly rued, Who saw her gar­den wast­ed by the brand. What wreck, what ru­in then must have en­sued, From this when wield­ed by such war­rior’s hand? If e’er Rogero force, e’er fury shewed, If e’er his mighty val­our well was scanned, ‘Twas here; ’twas here em­ployed; ’twas here dis­played; In the de­sire to give his la­dy aid.

XVII As hare from hound un­slipt, that help­less train De­fends it­self against the cav­alier. Many lay dead up­on the cum­bered plain, And num­ber­less were they who fled in fear. Mean­while the damsel had un­loosed the chain From the youth’s hands, and him in mar­tial gear Was has­ten­ing, with what speed she might, to deck, With sword in hand and shield about his neck.

XVI­II He, who was an­gered sore, as best he cou’d, Sought to avenge him of that evil crew; And gave such sig­nal proofs of hardi­hood, As stamped him for a war­rior good and true. The sun al­ready in the west­ern flood Had dipt his gild­ed wheels, what time the two, Valiant Rogero and his young com­peer, Vic­to­ri­ous is­sued, of the city clear.

XIX When now Rogero and the stranger knight, Clear of the city-​gates, the cham­paigne reach, The youth re­pays, with prais­es in­fi­nite, Rogero in kind mode and cun­ning speech, Who him, al­though un­known, had sought to right, At risk of life, and prays his name to teach That he may know to whom his thanks he owed For such a mighty ben­efit be­stowed.

XX “The vis­age of Bradamant I see, The beau­teous fea­tures and the beau­teous cheer.” Rogero said; “and yet the suavi­ty I of her well-​known ac­cents do not hear: Nor such re­turn of thanks ap­pears to be In place to­wards her faith­ful cav­alier. And if in very sooth it is the same, How has the maid so soon for­got my name?”

XXI In wary wise, in­tent the truth to find, Rogero said, “You have I seen else­where; And have again, and yet again, di­vined, Yet know I not, nor can re­mem­ber where. Say it, your­self, if it re­turns to mind, And, I be­seech, your name as well de­clare: Which I would glad­ly hear, in the de­sire To know whom I have res­cued from the fire.”

XXII ” — Me, it is pos­si­ble you may have seen, I know not when nor where (the youth replied); For I too range the world, in ar­mour sheen, Seek­ing ad­ven­ture strange on ev­ery side; Or hap­ly it a sis­ter may have been, Who to her waist the knight­ly sword has tied; Born with me at a birth; so like to view, The fam­ily dis­cerns not who is who.

XXI­II “You not first, sec­ond, or even fourth will be, Who have in this their er­ror had to learn; Nor fa­ther, broth­er, nor even moth­er me From her (such our re­sem­blance) can dis­cern. ‘Tis true, this hair, which short and loose you see, In many guise, and hers, with many a turn, And in long tress­es wound about her brow, Wide dif­fer­ence made be­tween us two till now.

XXIV “But since the day, that, wound­ed by a Moor In the head (a sto­ry te­dious to re­cite) A holy man, to heal the damsel’s sore, Cut short to the mid-​ear her tress­es bright, Ex­cept­ing sex and name, there is no more One from the oth­er to dis­tin­guish; hight I Richard­et­to am, Bradamant she; Ri­nal­do’s broth­er and his sis­ter we.

XXV “And to dis­please you were I not afraid, You with a won­der would I en­ter­tain, Which chanced from my re­sem­blance to the maid; Be­gun in plea­sure, fin­ish­ing in pain.” He to whom nought more pleas­ing could be said, And to whose ears there was no sweet­er strain That what in some sort on his la­dy ran, Be­sought the stripling so, that he be­gan.

XXVI “It so fell out, that as my sis­ter through The neigh­bour­ing wood pur­sued her path, a wound Was dealt the damsel by a payn­im crew, Which her by chance with­out a hel­met found. And she was fain to trim the locks which grew Clus­ter­ing about the gash, to mak­er her sound Of that ill cut which in her head she bore: Hence, shorn, she wan­dered through the for­est hoar.

XXVII “Rang­ing, she wan­dered to a shady font; Where, worn and trou­bled, she, in weary wise, Lit from her cours­er and dis­armed her front, And, couched up­on the green­wood, closed her eyes. A tale more pleas­ing than what I re­count In sto­ry there is none, I well sur­mise: Thith­er re­paired young Florde­spine of Spain, Who in that wood was hunt­ing with her train.

XXVI­II “And, when she found my sis­ter in the shade, Cov­ered, ex­cept her face, with mar­tial gear, — In place of spin­dle, fur­nished with the blade — Be­lieved that she be­held a cav­alier: The face and man­ly sem­blance she sur­veyed, Till con­quered was her heart: with cour­te­ous cheer She wooed the maid to hunt with her, and past With her alone in­to that hold at last.

XXIX “When now she had her, fear­less of sur­prise, Safe in a soli­tary place, that dame, By slow de­grees, in words and amorous wise, Showed her deep-​wound­ed heart; with sighs of flame, Breathed from her in­most breast, with burn­ing eyes, She spake her soul sick with de­sire; be­came Now pale, now red; nor longer self-​con­trolled, Rav­ished a kiss, she waxed so pass­ing bold.

XXX “My sis­ter was as­sured the huntress maid False­ly con­ceit­ed her a man to be; Nor in that need could she af­ford her aid; And found her­self in sore per­plex­ity. ` ‘Tis bet­ter that I now dis­pel (she said) The fool­ish thought she feeds, and that in me The damsel should a gen­tle wom­an scan, Rather than take me for a craven man.’

XXXI “And she said well: for craven­hood it were Be­fit­ting man of straw, not war­rior true, With whom so bright a la­dy deigned to pair, So won­der­ous sweet and full of nec­tarous dew, To clack like a poor cuck­ow to the fair, Hang­ing his cow­ard wing, when he should woo, Shap­ing her speech to this in wary mode, My sis­ter that she was a damsel, showed;

XXXII “That, like Camil­la and like Hyp­po­lite, Sought fame in bat­tle-​field, and near the sea, In Afric, in Arzil­la, saw the light; To shield and spear enured from in­fan­cy. A spark this quenched not; nor yet burned less bright The en­am­oured damsel’s kin­dled phan­ta­sy. Too tardy came the salve to ease the smart: So deep had Love al­ready driv­en his dart.

XXXI­II “Nor yet less fair to her my sis­ter’s face Ap­peared, less fair her ways, less fair her guise; Nor yet the heart re­turned in­to its place, Which joyed it­self with­in those dear-​loved eyes. Florde­spine deems the damsel’s iron case To her de­sire some hope of ease sup­plies; And when she thinks she is in­deed a maid, Laments and sobs, with mighty woe down­weighed.

XXXIV “He who had marked her sor­row and lament, That day, him­self had sor­rowed with the fair. `What pains (she said) did ev­er wight tor­ment, So cru­el, but that mine more cru­el were? I need not to ac­com­plish my in­tent, In oth­er love, im­pure or pure, de­spair; The rose I well might gath­er from the thorn: My long­ing on­ly is of hope for­lorn.

XXXV ” `It ’twas thy plea­sure, Love, to have me shent, Be­cause by glad es­tate thine anger stirred, Thou with some tor­ture might’st have been con­tent On oth­er lovers used; but nev­er word Have I found writ­ten of a fe­male bent On love of fe­male, mid mankind or herd. Wom­an to wom­an’s beau­ty still is blind; Nor ewe de­lights in ewe, nor hind in hind.

XXXVI ” `Tis on­ly I, on earth, in air, or sea, Who suf­fer at thy hands such cru­el pain; And this thou hast or­dained, that I may be The first and last ex­am­ple in thy reign. Foul­ly did Ni­nus’ wife and im­pi­ous­ly For her own son a pas­sion en­ter­tain; Loved was Pasiphae’s bull and Myrrha’s sire; But mine is mad­der than their worst de­sire.

XXXVII ” `Here fe­male up­on male had set her will; Had hope; and, as I hear, was sat­is­fied. Pasiphae the wood­en cow did fill: Oth­ers, in oth­er mode, their want sup­plied. But, had he flown to me, — with all his skill, Dan Daedalus had not the noose un­tied: For one too dili­gent hath wreathed these strings; Even Na­ture’s self, the puis­san­test of things.’

XXXVI­II “So grieves the maid, so goads her­self and wears, And shows no haste her sor­row­ing to forego; Some­times her face, some­times her tress­es tears, And lev­els at her­self the venge­ful blow. In pity, Bradamant the sor­row shares, And is con­strained to hear the tale of woe, She stud­ies to di­vert, with fruit­less pain, The strange and mad de­sire; but speaks in vain.

XXXIX “She, who re­quires as­sis­tance, not sup­port, Still more laments her­self, with grief op­prest. By this the wan­ing day was grow­ing short, For the low sun was crim­son­ing the west; A fit­ting hour for those to seek a port, Who would not in the wood set up their rest. When to this city, near her syl­van haunt, Young Florde­spine in­vit­ed Brada­ment.

XL “My sis­ter the re­quest could ill de­ny; And so they came to­geth­er to the place, Where, but for you, by that ill squadron I Had been com­pelled the cru­el flame to face: There Florde­spina made her fam­ily Ca­ress and do my sis­ter no small grace; And, hav­ing in a fe­male robe ar­raid, Past her on all be­hold­ers for a maid.

XLI “Be­cause per­ceiv­ing van­tage there was none In the male cheer by which she was mis­led, The damsel held it wise, re­proach to shun, Which might by any carp­ing tongue be said. And this the rather: that the ill, which one Of the two gar­ments in her mind had bred, Now with the oth­er which re­vealed the cheat, She would as­say to drive from her con­ceit.

XLII “The ladies share one com­mon bed that night, Their bed the same, but dif­fer­ent their re­pose. One sleeps, one groans and weeps in piteous plight, Be­cause her wild de­sire more fierce­ly glows; And on her wea­ried eyes should slum­ber light, All is de­ceit­ful that brief slum­ber shows. To her it seems, as if re­lent­ing Heav­en A bet­ter sex to Bradamant is giv­en.

XLI­II “As the sick man with burn­ing thirst dis­trest, If he should sleep, — ere he that wish ful­fil, — Aye in his trou­bled, in­ter­rupt­ed rest, Re­mem­bers him of ev­ery once-​seen rill: So is the damsel’s fan­cy still pos­sest, In sleep, with im­ages which glad her will. Then from the emp­ty dreams which crowd her brain, She wakes, and, wak­ing, finds the vi­sion vain.

XLIV “What vows she vowed, how oft that night she prayed, To all her gods and Ma­hound, in de­spair! — That they, by open mir­acle, the maid Would change, and give her oth­er sex to wear. But all the la­dy’s vows were ill ap­paid, And hap­ly Heav­en as well might mock the prayer; Night fades, and Phoe­bus rais­es from the main His yel­low head, and lights the world again.

XLV “On is­sue­ing from their bed when day is bro­ken, The wretched Florde­spina’s woes aug­ment: For of de­part­ing Bradamant had spo­ken, Anx­ious to scape from that em­bar­rass­ment. The princess a prime jen­net, as a to­ken, Forced on my part­ing sis­ter, when she went; And gild­ed hous­ings, and a sur­coat brave, Which her own hand had rich­ly broi­dered, gave.

XLVI “Her Florde­spine ac­com­pa­nied some way, Then, weep­ing, to her cas­tle made re­turn. So fast my sis­ter pricked, she reached that day Mount Al­ban; we who for her ab­sence mourn, Moth­er and broth­er, greet the mar­tial may, And her ar­rival with much joy dis­cern: For hear­ing nought, we feared that she was dead, And had re­mained in cru­el doubt and dread.

XLVII “Un­helmed, we won­dered at her hair, which passed In braids about her brow, she whilom wore; Nor less we won­dered at the for­eign cast Of the em­broi­dered sur­coat which she wore: And she to us re­hearsed, from first to last, The sto­ry I was telling you be­fore; How she was wound­ed in the wood, and how, For cure, were shorn the tress­es from her brow;

XLVI­II “And next how came on her, with labour spent, — As by the stream she slept — that huntress bright; And how, with all her false sem­blance well con­tent, She from the train with­drew her out of sight. Nor left she any thing of her lament Un­told; which touched with pity ev­ery wight; Told how the maid had har­boured her, and all Which past, till she re­vis­it­ed her Hall.

XLIX “Of Florde­spine I knew: and I had seen In Saragos­sa and in France the maid; To whose be­witch­ing eyes and love­ly mien My youth­ful ap­petite had of­ten strayed: Yet her I would not make my fan­cy’s queen; For hope­less love is but a dream and shade: Now I this prof­fered in such sub­stance view, Strait­way the an­cient flame breaks forth anew.

L “Love, with this hope, con­structs his sub­tle ties; Who oth­er threads for me would vain­ly weave. ‘Tis thus he took me, and ex­plained the guise In which I might the long-​sought boon achieve. Easy it were the damsel to sur­prise; For as the like­ness oth­ers could de­ceive, Which I to Bradamant, my sis­ter, bear, This hap­ly might as well the maid en­snare.

LI “Whether I speed or no, I hold it wise, Aye to pur­sue what­ev­er give de­light. I with no oth­er of my plan de­vise, Nor any seek to coun­sel me aright. Well know­ing where the suit of ar­mour lies My sis­ter doffed, I thith­er go at night; Her ar­mour and her steed to boot I take, Nor stand ex­pect­ing un­til day­light break.

LII “I rode all night — Love served me as a guide — To seek the home of beau­teous Florde­spine; And there ar­rived, be­fore in ocean’s tide The west­ern sun had hid his or­bit sheen. A hap­py man was he who fastest hied To tell my com­ing to the youth­ful queen; Ex­pect­ing from that la­dy, for his pain, Favour and good­ly guer­don to ob­tain.

LI­II “For Bradamant the guests mis­take me all, — As you your­self but now — so much the more, That I have both the cours­er and the pall With which she left them but the day be­fore. Florde­spine comes at lit­tle in­ter­val, With such fes­tiv­ity and cour­te­ous lore, And with a face, so jo­cund and so gay, She could not, for her life, more joy dis­play.

LIV “Her beau­teous arms about my neck she throws, And fond­ly clasp­ing me, my mouth she kist. If to my in­most heart the ar­row goes, Which Love di­rects, may well by you be wist. She leads me to her cham­ber of re­pose In haste, not suf­fers oth­ers to as­sist In tak­ing off my panoply of steel; Dis­arm­ing me her­self from head to heel.

LV “Then, or­der­ing from her store a cost­ly vest, She spread it, and — as I a wom­an were — The la­dy me in that rich gar­ment drest, And in a gold­en net con­fined my hair. I grave­ly moved my eye-​balls, nor con­fest, By ges­ture or by look, the sex I bear. My voice, which might dis­cov­er the de­ceit, I tuned so well that none per­ceived the cheat.

LVI “Next to the hall, where dame and cav­alier In crowds are gath­ered, we unit­ed go; Who make to us such court and good­ly cheer, As men to queen or high-​born la­dy show. Here oft I laughed at some, with se­cret jeer, Who, know­ing not the sex con­cealed be­low My flow­ing robe of fem­inine ar­ray, Wooed me with wish­ful eyes in wan­ton way.

LVII “When more ad­vanced in now the fes­tive night, And the rich board — board plen­teous­ly pur­veyed With what in sea­son was most exquisite — Has been some time re­moved, the roy­al maid Ex­pects not till I of my­self re­cite The cause, which thith­er me anew con­veyed: By her own cour­tesy and kind­ness led, That la­dy prays me to par­take her bed.

LVI­II “Damsels and dames with­drawn — with all the rest — Pages and cham­ber­lains, when now we lay, One and the oth­er, in our bed un­drest, With kin­dled torch­es, coun­ter­feit­ing day; `Mar­vel not, la­dy,’ (her I thus ad­drest,) `That I re­turn af­ter such short de­lay; For, hap­ly, thou imag­ined, that again Thou shouldst not see me un­til Heav­en knows when.

LIX ” `The rea­son I de­part­ed from thy side, And next of my re­turn, ex­plained shall be. Could I un­to thy fever have ap­plied, By longer so­journ here, a rem­edy, I in thy ser­vice would have lived and died, Nor would have been an hour away from thee: But see­ing how my stay in­creased thy woe, I, who could do no bet­ter, fixed to go.

LX ” `In­to the mid­dle of a wood pro­found By chance I from the beat­en path­way strayed: Where near me plain­tive cries I hear re­sound, As of a wom­an who in­treat­ed aid. To a lake of crys­tal I pur­sue the sound, And, there, amid the waves, a naked maid Caught on the fish-​hook of a Faun, sur­vey, Who would de­vour alive his help­less prey.

LXI ” `Up­on the losel, sword in hand, I ran, And, for I could not aid in oth­er wise, Bereft of life that evil fish­er­man. She in an in­stant to the wa­ter flies. — `Me hast thou helped not vain­ly,’ (she be­gan) And well shalt be re­ward­ed — with what prize Thou canst de­mand — for know I am a nymph, And have my dwelling in this crys­tal lymph;

LXII ” `And pow­er is mine to work por­ten­tous ends; Na­ture and El­ements I force: thy prayer Shape to the scope to which my strength ex­tends, And leave its sat­is­fac­tion to my care. Charmed by my song the moon from Heav­en de­scends; Fire can I freeze, and hard­en liq­uid air; And I at times have stopt the sun, and stirred This earth be­neath me by a sim­ple word.’

LXI­II “Trea­sure I cov­et not, nor yet as­pire O’er land or peo­ple to hold sovereign sway; Nor greater strength nor val­our would ac­quire, Nor fame in ev­ery war­fare bear away; But on­ly to ac­com­plish thy de­sire, En­treat the damsel she will show some way. Nor one nor oth­er method I fore­stall; But to her choice re­fer me, all in all.

LX­IV “Scarce my de­mand was made, be­fore mine eye Be­neath the lymph en­gulphed that la­dy viewed: Nor an­swered she my prayer, but, for re­ply, Me with the en­chant­ed el­ement be­dewed; Which has no soon­er touched my face than I, I know not how, am ut­ter­ly trans­mewed: I see, I feel — yet doubt­ing what I scan — Feel, I am changed from wom­an in­to man.

LXV - LX­IX (Stazas LXV - LX­IX un­trans­lat­ed by Rose)

LXX “The thing re­mained con­cealed be­tween us two; So that our bliss en­dured some months; at last We were es­pied; and, as I sore­ly rue, The tid­ings to the Span­ish monarch past. Thou that whilere pre­served’st me from the crew, Which me in­to the flames de­signed to cast, By this mayst ful­ly com­pre­hend the rest; But God alone can read my sor­row­ing breast.”

LXXI So Richard­et­to spake, and by his say Made the dark path they trod less irk­some be. Up a small height this while their jour­ney lay, Gird­ed with cliff and cav­ern, drear to see. Bristling with rocks, a steep and nar­row way Was to that rugged hill the stub­born key; A town, called Agris­monte, crowned the steep, Which Aldigi­er of Cler­mont had in keep.

LXXII Bas­tard of Buo­vo, broth­er to the pair, Sir Vi­vian and Sir Malagi­gi hight: Who him Ger­ar­do’s law­ful son de­clare, Are wit­ness­es of lit­tle worth and light. — This, as it may! — strong, valiant, wise, and ware, Lib­er­al, hu­mane, and cour­te­ous was the knight; And on the fortress of its ab­sent lord, By night and day, kept faith­ful watch and ward.

LXXI­II His cousin Richard­et­to, as be­hoved, Was cour­te­ous­ly re­ceived by Aldigi­er; Who him as dear­ly as a broth­er loved, And made Rogero for his sake good cheer; But not with wont­ed wel­come; — in­ly moved — He even wore a vis­age sad and drear: For he, that day, ill-​tid­ings had re­ceived, And hence in heart and face the war­rior grieved.

LXXIV To Richard­et­to he ex­claims, in­stead Of greet­ing: “Evil news are hith­er blown. By a sure mes­sen­ger, to-​day I read That faith­less Berto­la­gi of Bay­onne, With bar­barous Lan­fusa has agreed, And cost­ly spoils makes over to that crone; Who will con­sign to him the brethren twain, Thy Malagi­gi and thy Vi­viane;

LXXV “These she, since Fer­rau took them, aye has stayed Im­pris­oned in a dark and evil cell; Till the dis­cour­te­ous and foul pact was made With that false Ma­ga­nzese of whom I tell; And them to-​mor­row, to a place con­veyed ‘Twixt Bay­onne and a town of his, will sell To him, who will be present, to ad­vance The price of the most pre­cious blood in France.

LXXVI “One, at a gal­lop, even now, to re­port Tid­ings to our Ri­nal­do of the wrong, I sent; bur fear that he can ill re­sort To him in time, the jour­ney is so long. Men have I not to sal­ly from my fort; And my pow­er halts where my de­sire is strong. The traitor will the knights, if ren­dered, slay; Nor know I what to do nor what to say.”

LXXVII Sir Richard­et­to the ill news dis­please, And (as they him) dis­please in equal wise Rogero; who, when silent both he sees, Nor able any coun­sel to de­vise, Ex­claims with mick­le dar­ing: “Be at ease; I chal­lenge for my­self the whole em­prize; And, to set free your brethren, in my hand More than a thou­sand shall avail this brand.

LXXVI­II “I ask not men, I ask not aid; my spear Is, I be­lieve, suf­fi­cient to the feat. I on­ly ask of you a guide to steer Me to the place where for the ex­change they meet: I even in this place will make you hear Their cries, who for that evil bar­gain threat.” He said; nor to one lis­ten­er of the twain, That had helped his ac­tions, spake in vain.

LXXIX The oth­er heard him not, or heard at most As we great talk­ers hear, who lit­tle do: But Richard­et­to took aside their host And told how him he from the fire with­drew; And how he was as­sured, be­yond his boast, He would in time and place his prowess shew. ‘Twas now that bet­ter au­di­ence than be­fore Aldigi­er lent, and set by him great store;

LXXX And at the feast, where Plen­ty for the three Emp­tied her horn, him hon­oured as his lord. Here they con­clude they can the brethren free With­out more suc­cour from their gaol­er’s ward. This while Sleep seized on lord and fam­ily, Save young Rogero: no re­pose af­ford To him the thoughts, which ev­er­more mo­lest, And, rankling in his bo­som, ban­ish rest.

LXXXI The siege of Agra­mant, to him that day Told by the mes­sen­ger, he has at heart. He well dis­cerns that ev­ery least de­lay Will he dis­hon­our. What a cease­less smart Will scorn in­flict, what shame will him ap­pay, If he against his sovereign lord take part? Oh! what foul cow­ardice, how foul a crime His bap­tism will ap­pear at such a time!

LXXXII That true re­li­gion had the stripling swayed Men might at any oth­er time con­ceive: But now, when need­ed was the war­rior’s aid From siege the Moor­ish monarch to re­lieve, That Fear and Base­ness had more large­ly weighed, In his de­signs, would ev­ery one be­lieve, That any pref­er­ence of a bet­ter creed: This thought makes good Rogero’s bo­som bleed.

LXXXI­II Nor less to quit his Queen, her leave un­sought, Did with Rogero’s oth­er griefs com­bine: Now this and now that care up­on him wrought; Which di­verse­ly his doubt­ful heart in­cline: The un­hap­py lover fruit­less­ly had thought To find her at the abode of Florde­spine; Whith­er to­geth­er went (as told whilere) To suc­cour Richard­et­to, maid and peer.

LXXXIV He next be­thinks him of the promise plight To meet at Val­lom­brosa’s sanc­tu­ary, Deems her gone thith­er, and that ’twill ex­cite Her won­der­ment him­self not there to see. Could he at least a mes­sage send or write, That he with rea­son might not cen­sured be, Be­cause not on­ly he had dis­obeyed, But was de­part­ing hence, and noth­ing said!

LXXXV He, hav­ing thought on many things, in the end Re­solves on writ­ing what be­hoves; and, though He knows not how his let­ter he shall send, In the as­sur­ance it will safe­ly go, This hin­ders not; he thinks that, as they wend, Chance in his way some faith­ful Post may throw; Nor more de­lays: up leaps the rest­less knight, And calls for pen and pa­per, ink and light.

LXXXVI That which is need­ed, in obe­di­ence meet, Aldigi­er’s valets bring, a care­ful band, The youth be­gins to write; and, first, to greet The maid, as wont­ed cour­te­sies de­mand; Next tells how Agra­mant has sent to en­treat, In his dis­patch­es, suc­cour at his hand; And, save he quick­ly to his com­fort goes, Must needs be slain or tak­en by his foes.

LXXXVII Then adds, his sovereign be­ing so best­ed, And pray­ing him for suc­cour in his pain, She must per­ceive what blame up­on his head Would light, if Agra­mant ap­plied in vain; And, since with her he is about to wed, ‘Tis fit­ting he should keep him with stain; For ill he deems a union could en­dure Be­tween aught foul and her to pass­ing pure.

LXXXVI­II And if he erst a name, renowned and clear, Had laboured to pro­cure by ac­tions fair, And hav­ing gained it thus, he held it dear, — If this had sought to keep — with greater care He kept it now, — and with a miser’s fear Guard­ed the trea­sure she with him would share; Who, though dis­tinct in body and in limb, When wed­ded, ought to be one soul with him;

LXXXIX And, as he erst by word, he now ex­plained Anew by writ­ing, that the pe­ri­od o’er, For which he was to serve his king con­strained, Un­less it were his lot to die be­fore, He would in deed a Chris­tian be or­dained, As in re­solve he had been ev­er­more; And of her kin, Ri­nal­do and her sire, Her af­ter­wards in wed­lock would re­quire.

XC “I would,” he said, “re­lieve, with your good will, My king, be­sieged by Charle­magne’s ar­ray, That the mis­judg­ing rab­ble, prone to ill, Might nev­er, to my shame and scan­dal, say: Rogero, in fair wind and weath­er, still Wait­ed up­on his sovereign, night and day, And now that For­tune to King Charles is fled, Has with that con­quer­ing lord his en­sign spread.’

XCI “I fif­teen days or twen­ty ask, that I Yet once again may to our army speed; So that, by me from lea­guer­ing en­emy The African can­ton­ments may be freed: I will some fit and just oc­ca­sion spy, Mean­while, to jus­ti­fy my change of creed, I for my hon­our make this sole re­quest; Then whol­ly yours for life, in all things, rest.”

XCII Rogero is such words his thoughts ex­posed, Which nev­er could by me be ful­ly showed; And added more, nor from his task re­posed, Un­til the crowd­ed pa­per over­flowed: He next the let­ter fold­ed and en­closed, And sealed it, and with­in his bo­som stowed; In hopes to meet next morn­ing by the way One who might covert­ly that writ con­vey.

XCI­II When he had closed the sheet, that amorous knight His eye­lids closed as well, and rest en­sued: For Slum­ber came and steeped his wea­ried might In balmy mois­ture, from a branch im­bued With Lethe’s wa­ter; and he slept till — white And red — a rain of flow­ers the hori­zon strewed, Paint­ing the joy­ous east with colours gay; When from her gold­en dwelling broke the day:

XCIV And when the green­wood birds ‘gan, far and wide, Greet the re­turn­ing light with glad­some strain, Sir Aldigi­er (who wished to be the guide, Up­on that jour­ney, of the war­like twain, Who would in suc­cour of those brethren ride, To res­cue them from Berto­la­gi’s chain) Was first up­on his feet; and ei­ther peer Is­sues as well from bed, when him they hear.

XCV When clad and thor­ough­ly in arms ar­rayed — Rogero with the cousins took his way, Hav­ing that pair al­ready warm­ly prayed The ad­ven­ture on him­self alone to lay: But these, by love for those two brethren swayed, And deem­ing it dis­cour­tesy to obey, Stood out against his prayer, more stiff than stone, Nor would con­sent that he should wend alone.

XCVI True to the time and place of change, they hie Whith­er Sir Aldigi­er’s ad­vices teach; And there sur­vey an am­ple band who lie Ex­posed to fierce Apol­lo’s heat; in reach, Nor myr­tle-​tree nor lau­rel they de­scry, Nor ta­per­ing cy­press, ash, nor spread­ing beech: But naked grav­el with low shrubs dis­cerned, Un­delved by mat­tock and by share un­turned.

XCVII Those three ad­ven­tur­ous war­riors halt­ed where A path went through the un­cul­ti­vat­ed plain, And saw a knight ar­rive up­on the lair, Who, flour­ished o’er with gold, wore plate and chain, And on green field that beau­teous bird and rare, Which longer than an age ex­tends its reign. No more, my lord: for at my can­to’s close I find my­self ar­rived, and crave re­pose.